Swift dreams of running free through the forest, he and a vixen and their beautiful pups, a warm burrow and a fresh kill. His legs twitch.

There’s a shock of pain, and he’s awake, snarling but helpless before the smug little face. “Let’s go, Swift!” chortles the creature, resting the barbed lash on his shoulder. “Need to go see the King about some troll trouble!”

Hating it, Swift kneels to let him climb on, thinking all the while of how one day the enchanted slave-collar will be off. Swift will snap him up, then, one bite, stupid pointy hat and all.